


There Will Be Darkness Again

by poppywine



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Dissociation, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Fear of Death, Gen, Hallucinations, Non-Linear Narrative, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppywine/pseuds/poppywine
Summary: Elizabeth comes to terms with both the end and beginning of all things, herself included.
Kudos: 10





	There Will Be Darkness Again

She’s treating her injuries for what feels like the hundredth time, fingers stiff and sore as she manipulates the bloody bandage over the open wound, when _it_ hits her, as direct and unflinching as a shot to the chest. 

_This really is pointless, isn’t it?_

The thought settled over her like a fog, pressing down on her shoulders and slithering down her throat to settle heavy into her stomach. Fear gripped her in a vise, tight enough to restrict her breathing, and to combat it she did what she’d always done: simply moved forward, forcing her numb fingers to smooth down the grimy plaster.

When she was satisfied, she rose unsteadily to her feet, testing her weight once more before continuing. The splicers were dead or gone, for now anyways, and as she moved through the debris she took time to salvage resources from the remaining bodies. With every step, her feet throbbed, the resounding _clik_ of her pumps in the quiet punctuated by a burst of pain. When she reached the elevator, she paused, letting her hand brush over the tarnished call buttons.

**_Elizabeth. What are you doing._ **

“That’s a good question, isn’t it.” 

She watched her hand (steady yet bruised, because of _course_ ) push the call button. 

“But does it matter, really? I’m invested in all of this, whether I like it or not.” 

When the doors parted with their musical chime, she allowed herself a little chuckle as the elevator began its ascent, rattling with disuse. 

“Maybe it runs in the family, Booker.” 

**_Don’t talk like that._ **

Hours later. Ignoring the ache of her arms (and her back and her legs and her _heart_ ) Elizabeth brought the Air-Grabber down over her head in a hard arc, listening with grim satisfaction as the metal hooks broke the unfortunate splicers skull open with a muted _crunch._ Hobbling past his still warm, twitching corpse, she grabbed the wall and struggled to steady herself, mindful of the way the bruises on her knees made crouching difficult. She wanted to rest, _badly,_ but even looking at the abandoned seats around her was impossible, her attention sliding off them like grease from a skillet. Even when she pushed past her waning concentration, she still couldn’t see herself actually sitting in one- the urge to move forward, that nagging itch to _go_ superseded her deepest exhaustion, forcing her to trudge along. 

**_You look beat. You need rest, Elizabeth._ **

Ignoring Booker’s suggestion, she spun the wheels of her Air-Grabber, absently listening to the _click click click_ of the gears cutting through empty space. “I hadn’t noticed.” 

**_Now’s not the time for lip. You’re dead on your feet. You won’t be help to anyone, let alone the girl, if you already have one foot in the grave._ **

At this, she relented, feeling the anger drain out of her. She was partially turned back towards the chairs when something white gold and shining caught her eye, leather handle breaching the pile of debris pushed to one side. The medical kit sprung open under her touch and at the sight of the full syringe inside, she let out a sigh she didn’t know she had been holding. As fast as she could she rolled up her tattered skirt and jabbed the needle into the flesh of her thigh, standing up stiffly as the ADAM threaded through her bloodstream. Smoothing the fabric back into place, a scraping sound caught her attention, almost but-not-quite hidden beneath the white noise of the ocean around her. 

The sound make her pulse kick into overdrive, and she felt her hand automatically clench the Air Grabber, swinging around to face the source. Slowly she inched her way across the floor, skin prickling with adrenaline. Rounding the corner there was nothing; not even one of the many rats that inhabited the building. She stood there, feeling a little stupid at her reaction, before the same sound came from behind her again, this time accompanied by rapid footsteps and her stomach dropped to the warped floorboard as she realized she’d been _had_. 

She managed to turn halfway towards the interloper, mouth twisting half-open in shock, when a glint of silver flickered at the corner of her vision and her world _exploded_ with pain, blobs of white light distorting her vision. Her shoulder took the brunt of her weight as she fell, and as she struggled to stand she saw fraying oxfords crossing the floor, coming to a stop at her side. _Move,_ she screamed at her legs, which seemed to be shivering pathetically outside her control. In a desperate twist, she forced herself upright, still disoriented. Another swing of the pipe caught her eye, overhead this time, and she lurched out of range, still close enough that displaced air ruffled her hair. She fumbled with her pistol blindly but the clip was empty, and the range of the Air-Grabber was pitifully short. The splicer was shouting at her as he charged, some nonsense about _candy from a baby,_ and as she struggled to orient herself from the graceless dive he landed another hit, this time across her spine. All her breath left her in a single momentous _whoosh_ of air, sparks of white-hot agony radiating from the hit. She reached for the fallen pistol again, missed, and heard the grim whistle of the now-bloody pipe cutting through the air, smashing into the back of her head with a wet sound. Distantly she saw rather then felt herself sink to the floor, one leg bent unnaturally as she finally landed on her side. The pain was so utterly complete that the world around her seemed to white out, reduced to hazy silhouettes lost in a snowstorm. She watched as the white shifted by increments to a dirty grey and then black. As her sight failed she heard herself give one last sigh before the darkness was everywhere and then she was _flying_ , the city flickering below her like a kinetoscoped jewel.

When she came to it was to the thick stench of acrid smoke. The smell enveloped her, filling her throat and coating her tongue with a bitter film. Somehow, she was standing upright, empty hands at her sides; the shift in orientation from horizontal to vertical was so sudden that she overcorrected and fell, palms stinging against the marble floor as she caught herself. Useless adrenaline flooded her bloodstream, sent her scrambling into the nearest corner. Her back knocked against the wall as she hunched in on herself, trembling with a nervous tension that refused to leave. 

“B-Booker.” Her voice was pathetic, croaky with tears and unspeakably lonely in the empty air. 

**_Just breathe, Elizabeth. I’m not going anywhere._ **

**_“_ ** What... was _that_.” 

**_I wish I knew._ **

“The splicer- he- I was- I **died**.”

**_I saw._ **

**“** I don’t understand,” she whispered, blinking hard in the unfamiliar light. “The twins told me I had only one chance, but... I’m... Where am I?”

**_Seems familiar enough._ **

Pushing herself back to her feet, she turned her head from side to side taking in the empty corridor before her. The floor was filthy with a dark coating of grime and the sounds of dripping water was omnipresent. Fragments of broken glass glimmered in the murk, winking like dozens of eyes. A pang of panic seized her before recognition came over her- this was the ventilation shaft in Ryan the Lion Preparatory, the one that opened to a storage closet. 

As she crawled back into the tight tunnel, feeling the grime soaking its way into her already ruined tights, she saw it- the corpse of the first splicer she’d encountered, still splayed out on the shallow steps leading to the door. A congealing puddle of red-brown blood his head like a dirty halo and she winced before stepping past him.

“This can’t be right. How can no one care enough to stop them?”

**Elizabeth.**

**“** What!”

**You read Hamlet, right?**

“Yes? I don’t understand what you’re saying. It’s not like I’m in a play, or- or-”

**_Did you mourn for Ophelia? Hamlet?_ **

“Why would I? They’re just... characters...” 

A sudden wave of rising horror struck her, and she crumpled to the floor, pressing her knees to her forehead and sucking in hysterical gasps. The truth of narrative was all around her, crushing her in its weight.

“Oh, god.”

**_I’m sorry._ **

**“** That can’t be right. I was there... I felt it.” 

**_But you also saw it_**. **_Saw them. You haven't been looking ahead Elizabeth. You've been looking behind the curtains._**

“What’s this then? A fairytale? A sick story for some callous audience? **What am I**?”

**_I wish I could tell you._ **

As she searched the area, slipping on the piles of debris spread across the floor, her foot connected solidly with an unusually clean hardcover conspicuously clean among the plaster-dusted stacks. _Don't Let The Bastards See You Sweat_ , the cover screamed in all caps, and Elizabeth had to resist the urge to waste precious energy kicking it across the room.

As she traveled to Sally, she was struck by flashes of events coming and going- Fontaine slipping into his Atlas accent for the first time, Andrew Ryan dying screaming, faceless hoards of little girls. Beyond that, more snippets: a half-drowned young man crawling up lighthouse steps, the sounds of endless drilling, a voice bearing _a_ message _for the Family._ Then, almost as an afterthought, she saw herself, fresh blood mixing with old as she slouched there, half curled on the floor of the dusty tunnel. The chain of events was a perfect loop, flowing from one choice to the next, with the terrifying sameness of a water wheel. The fact of the matter was there, staring her down, forcing her eyes open to see even as blood loss threatened to shut them for good. She had so many ideas to avoid the ending she had been assigned, so blinded by many tactics and strategy that she played right into it, following the script as directly as if it had been written out for her.

Then the ending was _here_ , real and tangible, the root of her failure stroking her arm with small filthy fingers.

“ _No funeral for Ophelia_ ,” she muttered to herself as darkness began blossoming at the edges of her vision. Just as her eyes began to slide shut, she understood, all at once: Frank was like her, in a way. He too was on the same stage, assigned a part- but completely unaware, he ran on, his failure as certain and inflexible as the ground beneath him. Fontaine would never _get_ anything, and maybe even less than that. For all of his planning, his cutthroat schemes and machinations, he would just take her place later on, bleeding out on the ground while the hands of children fluttered around him.

She could see it in her mind's eye: the story unfolding even quicker now, a carousel of snapshots spinning faster and faster, until the visions faded and she knew what would happen next: 

She would be 18 again, and a man would fall through her roof with the perfect key.

_Who are you?_

_My name is DeWitt. I'm a friend. I've come to get you out of here._

For the first time in any of her many lives, Elizabeth died laughing.


End file.
